End of an Era: Broken Dishes and New Perspectives
The little West Elm dish that could! Broken pieces of a gray ramekin from Kayte’s first apartment.
It happened so quickly—a small clatter, the distinct sound of ceramic meeting tiled floor - the padded kitchen rug couldn’t save it. My partner had been pulling out a plate for lunch when the dish caught on his sleeve and fell.
The victim? A tiny gray ramekin from West Elm that had been with me for more than fifteen years, 3 states and 3 moves. Just a small dipping dish, barely big enough to hold a couple tablespoons of ranch dressing. Nothing special to most people, but to me, it was a time capsule and I was quickly reminiscing down memory lane. (And *someone* thought I was so weird taking a picture of the broken dish, I mean I can’t blame him 😆)
The $5 Splurge
Take a walk with me.
I distinctly remember buying that little dish as a young 20-something, fresh on her own in a new state with only work colleagues to call her friends. I had just moved into my first solo apartment—no roommates, just me and my random collection of belongings I’d been hoarding for years. I was in St. Louis, MO at my first “big girl” job post grad school. Thought I could get big-girl kitchen stuff to go with my new attitude so I ventured into West Elm, a store that might as well have had a "You Can't Afford This" sign hanging over the door specifically for me. Pretty sure I had a 7-11 dinner on the way home.
As per usual when you are on a budget - I was minding my business, flipping over price tags and putting them back because literally everything was so expensive but so pretty. Each price confirmed what I already knew: I couldn't afford much in this store. But I wanted to shop here. I wanted to have a piece of this experience in my kitchen. There’s always those small “I made it” moments that are inconsequential in the grand scheme of things yet mean everything to you in those moments.
I refused to leave empty-handed. Part pride I’m sure. The thought of a sales associate watching me walk out without buying anything after checking prices was just too embarrassing to handle. I didn't want to look like I couldn't afford to shop there— this was not going to be my "Pretty Woman" moment.
So I kept looking around the store for something, anything, within my budget. That's when I found them: two small, ceramic dipping dishes. Ramekins. I think they were $5 each, frivolous items but they were something I could walk out with, head held high, West Elm shopping bag in hand.
The Price Tag Dance
That story I just told? It wasn't an isolated incident. Growing up, I performed this dance countless times—entering stores I couldn't really afford, feeling obligated to buy something to prove I belonged there. Shopping clearance and sale items only. I'd rather spend money I didn't have than have someone think I was poor or didn't belong. Another short story: I remember finding the Confessions of a Shopaholic books in Barnes and Nobles and mistakenly thought they were going to be a non-fiction self-help book series. Not a set of laugh-out-loud comedy fiction books that I could not put down! While my shopping trips were much more scaled down than Miss Bloomwood’s, they were otherwise spot on. I craved buying things, anything. My mom used to say I had the “I wants” growing up.
So I left that store carrying the shopping bag like a badge of honor, proof that I too could shop at West Elm, even if all I could afford was essentially two glorified sauce cups. I hardly even hosted people in my apartment but *I* knew I owned them.
The Breaking Point
When my partner accidentally knocked one of these dishes off the counter today, he showed genuine concern. "Are you upset?" he asked, grabbing the vacuum to pick up the little slivers of ceramic.
And in that moment, I realized I wasn't upset at all. "Accidents happen, it’s just a dish" I said, surprising even myself with how much I meant it. For being someone super materialistic, accidents really do happen and while I used to put self-worth attached to the act of buying the item, if something happens to it I generally don’t get worked up. There’s probably some psychology to unpack in there.
What did strike me wasn't the loss of the dish but the memory that came with it. I used that thing weekly - if not for dipping, then to store a cache of vitamins to take with a meal. Yet today is when I found myself telling my partner about that shopping trip, when I couldn’t afford fancy kitchen items in my first apartment and we joked that I couldn’t really afford things there now either…again, not wrong 🫠
The Yellow Dish Philosophy
While shopping at West Elm still isn’t in my price-house, what's changed is that I no longer care nearly ‘as much’ about what labels are on my possessions or what others might think of me based on where I shop. (Let’s be real, I think we all care to some degree in certain situations!)
Somewhere along the line, I stopped performing for imaginary judgmental onlookers. I stopped equating my worth with the stores I could afford to shop in. I started buying things because I liked them, not because of what they signified about my social status. Do I still shop? Yes. Do I still overspend? Also yes.
That little broken dish represented a younger version of myself—someone who felt she needed to prove something by making purchases, someone who worried too much about what others thought about her financial situation. I needed to buy something from this nice store to feel nice about my life. Even though during that same time frame I ended up having to get a second job in the evenings and on weekends waitressing at a sports bar to make literal ends meet.
Quite frankly - IMHO - it’s still okay to spend small amounts of money that bring you happiness. I have memories of items I can hopefully pass on to kids or grandkids one day. Even if the item was thrifted (which I do way more now than I used to!)
One Yellow Dish Remains
Silver linings! I still have one yellow mini ramekin left sitting in my cabinet. Now I have a bonus story for how I lost its sister.
It sounds crazy cliche and cheesy, but today’s broken dish reminded me of how life changes. And maybe not necessarily in terms of wealth, but in self-acceptance and personal growth. I've learned that walking out of a store without buying anything isn't a reflection of my worth. Things break, accidents happen, and the brands we buy (or don’t!) don't define us.
That remaining yellow dish will continue to take me down memory lane until its time comes, too. And when that happens, I'll just sweep up the pieces and move on, appreciating the memories it held.
